


Become Our Scars

by hotot



Series: Now Kiss [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Biting, Canon Character of Color, Chubby Sole Survivor, Clothed Sex, Developing Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/F, Fat Character, Fix-It of Sorts, Frottage, Kissing, Light Angst, Polyamory Mention, Porn with Feelings, Sexual Tension, Started as a drabble, Vaginal Fingering, honestly i don't know why i'm even surprised anymore, oh yeah and lots of consent, scar kink, turned into feelings with a side of smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-19 01:05:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10628949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotot/pseuds/hotot
Summary: Glory's got a crush on Fixer, but there's no way she's going to do a thing about it.~~~Kiss prompt #13. following the kiss with a series of kisses down the neck...but it evolved.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This started as a drabble and decided to be a ficlet. Besides being smut with feelings, this is a proof of concept/character development for a later (god so much later) part of another story I'm writing, [The Trick to This](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8930290/chapters/20453683). 
> 
> Huge thanks to [ghostofshe](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostofshe) for betaing this. I couldn't write present tense without you.

Fixer isn’t one for showing off, or at least that’s what she claims. 

Glory’s not so sure about that claim when Fixer rolls back into HQ from her latest mission, face smudged with road dirt, blood drying in a trickle from her nose. Deacon follows in her wake, grinning like a lovesick fool, but he peels off as soon as they make it past the beds. 

Glory’s sure they’re not fucking. Not _yet_ at least, but Deacon’s been obsessed with Fixer from day one. He’d been around HQ more than Glory had ever seen him in the five years she’s been free and working for the Railroad. The three months Fixer’s been on the job—has it really only been three months?—has turned the two of them into partners, thick as thieves. Glory feels a pang of what? Of jealousy? Not quite. Whatever it is, it makes Glory feel a little lonely. 

If she Fixer asked, Glory would be the one to partner up. Glory would be there. Right at her...back. 

And damn it all if Glory's not staring at Fixer’s back again— _okay_ , if she’s being honest, she’s staring at her _ass_ again, pushed out as she leans over Tom’s terminal to look at the new mods he’s cooked up for that little peashooter that she’s constantly fondling. Glory thinks she just _might_ be showing off. It’s aimed right in Glory’s direction. Her ass. Not the peashooter.

Fixer turns around and shoots her a little smile that makes Glory think she’s got something to brag about. There’s a ghost of a challenge there, but then again, Glory’s always looking for a challenge. Fixer reminds Glory of those mountain peaks she’s seen in that big, faded book Deacon found for her last year, the atlas with all the maps and the drawing of forests and mountains Glory wasn’t sure actually existed.

Fixer’s a mountain, and fuck. God _fucking_ damn it, Glory wants to climb her. Right up to the...top. Fuck, what the _hell_ is wrong with her?

Yep, she’s a mountain of a woman, despite being so tiny. She’s got a stone face; she calls it “resting bitch face,” one of those old word euphemisms that Glory can’t quite get a handle on. 

But that glint in her eye, that tiny half smile is a little crack in her facade.

“Glory,” she says, sauntering over like a landslide, and Glory puts on her own tough bitch face. Never resting, though. Not Glory.

God, she needs a cigarette, but Fixer doesn’t like smoking. She used to be some kind of old world doctor or something. Said smoking causes cancer, something that eats people from the inside. It didn’t sound fun. Glory keeps her smokes in her pocket. 

“Fixer,” Glory says back, her voice sounding hoarse like always, and Fixer actually smiles and wipes at the crust of blood on her swollen nose. “Take a couple hits there, slugger?” 

Fixer nods. “Raiders. I took a fist to the face, but my nose seems to be intact.” She gives it a delicate prod with her fingers.

Glory smirks at Fixer as she studies a streak of dirt across her cheekbone. “You’ve got a little something on your face…” 

“Ugh, help a girl out?” Fixer wrinkles her nose and raises her chin a bit like she’s asking for Glory to wipe the dirt away.

Glory reaches up and hesitates, and then lifts her hand to Fixer’s cheek. She smudges the dirt with a calloused thumb to little effect, leaving a bigger streak of grime instead of helping at all. 

“Better?” Fixer asks. 

“Much,” Glory says with a little nod, and drops her hand.

Fixer gives her a sly little look. “You should know I’m a decent lie detector at this point.”

“Right,” says Glory. She wants to say more, drag on Deacon because he’s her favorite punching bag and she knows Deacon doesn’t mind. He practically offers it as a service. She's usually punching up when she drags on him, though, except the gender stuff. She never touches the gender stuff. Instead she swallows a snide comment about his lying gimmick being the source of constant headaches and just sort of…stares at Fixer for a bit. 

_God, she’s pretty._ The sharp crop of her sable hair mostly hides a nasty scar that runs from her temple to her sharp jaw. Two old, pink scars cut across her chin and lip, like she once fell and they split open. Glory stops studying the scars and meets her eyes. They’re nice, her eyes. Brown, shot with copper when the light catches them.

Fixer looks down at her olive jumpsuit, stained with road dirt and radiation dust and sighs. “You know, I think I’ve been seeing a bit too much of the Commonwealth lately. And a bit too much is ending up on me.” 

Glory shakes her head, “You’re hogging all the action, you know. I wouldn’t mind the dirt if it meant I got back to my regular workload.” 

Fixer shrugs, gesturing vaguely with a twirl of her finger. “It’s not just Railroad business. I’ve got...what’s the expression… plates spinning? Lots of them. In the air. Or something.” 

English isn’t Fixers first language and Glory half-smiles as she struggles with the idiom. She lacks a Wastelander’s lexicon as well, and uses the proper names for things: super mutants instead of muties; feral ghouls instead of ferals (as if ghouls didn’t have enough problems); drugs instead of chems. Really it makes Glory feel a little better that the woman doesn't know _everything._

Even so, Fixer is weirdly intimidating. Glory knows Fixer is important somehow. Deacon wouldn’t be so obsessed with her otherwise. She also knows Fixer works for the Minutemen, and is lobbying Dez to integrate Railroad operations and synth escort missions into supply lines guarded by reassigned Heavies. God, if Glory got assigned to disguise herself as fucking supply chain runner in order to smuggle synths out of the wealth she might just break from the Railroad and fly solo. 

Fixer’s got other plates too, big plates, like finding a way into the Institute and rescuing her kid. Which is really what she’s all about. 

Glory doesn't have such a wide array of agendas. Her first memory is of sweeping and mopping floors in a long white corridor, muzzled by her programming. On the run to the first safehouse, Glory sees a feral dog for the first time, and later she recognizes it’s snarl in the smile she practices in a broken mirror. There’s plenty to remember after that, but the only important thing is that Glory choose her path, knowing it would be lonely. She has no fake, friendly memories of a happy home or a loving family, no joy to sink into when the Commonwealth gets to be too much. Her calling is higher than exploring the world, of being selfish and knowing other people. 

She knows her path: Save her people. Take over the Institute. Build their legacy. Protect synths at all costs. She’s prepared to die for it.

Fixer isn’t prepared to die for anything short of saving her son. Besides, despite her lack of context for much of the Commonwealth, Fixer’s head is so full of the old world that it would be a shame to lose that knowledge. She knows so much, it makes Glory’s head spin. It makes her feel lonely. She wants….

“I’m going to do some scavenging for the relay," Fixer says. “I’m looking for some tech parts. A bio scanner, hopefully. It might mean bots. Would you like to come along?”

Glory raises her eyebrows. Usually when Fixer and Deacon drag themselves back into HQ, Fixer sits and chats with Glory over those rum and nukas for a bit before one of them runs off to take care of business. This is the first time Fixer has asked Glory to tag along on one of her actual excursions.

“Deacon’s not going?” Glory asks. 

“ _Enfer non_.” She shakes her head. “He’s a pain on junk runs. Always complaining.” 

“Een-feer non? There you go with that french nonsense again. I think you do it just to show off.”

Fixer smiles again, another of those tiny smirks, and Glory wants to tease a bigger smile out of her, see if she’s even capable of it. 

“ _En-fer,”_ corrects Fixer. "Hell no." 

Glory manages to swallow her laugh into a quiet huff. “Whatever you say.” 

“I could use your help.” Dark, pretty eyebrows raise and she looks... _hopeful._ Like she really wants to go. With Glory. Glory’s heart speeds up a tick and then settles down as she makes her decision.

_All right._

“All right. Just as long as we’re not hunting down and Gen 1s or 2s. I need to get the fuck out of HQ for a couple hours before I lose it completely. Things have been pretty boring since you showed up and started kicking the Commonwealth’s ass.”

“Perfect.” Fixer beams at her, a sudden, bright break in her stoic facade. “No synths, I promise. Grab a bag or two, and let’s go.” That smile pushes her over the edge.

_Fuck it._


	2. Chapter 2

They trawl the ruins of North Boston, looking for bits and bobs and things Glory doesn’t care about. Fixer makes a thorough job of it, taking point, so Glory tries to be patient, which is not part of her skillset. She settles, makes it her job to watch Fixer’s back. They load up their packs with wires, desk fans, and circuit boards from the endless protectrons they take out as the duck into official looking buildings that Fixer thinks might have old world tech. 

They don’t even break a sweat, really. It’s almost nice that there’s no real challenge to scavenging with Fixer though, no _mission._ They aren’t clearing safe routes or running a synth from the ‘wealth. Nothing life-or-death, just a chore. But they are doing _something._ Building. As far as Glory can tell, that’s what Fixer _does._ She builds things. Momentum. Faith. Settlements. Molecular relays. Trust. 

And that’s it, right there. The Railroad trusts her. Deacon trusts her. Deacon, who doesn't trust hardly anyone. And moving with her through the ruins as the sun sinks down past the broken teeth of the skyline, turning things bright and golden, their shadows stretching long and twisted in the rubble behind them, Glory realizes that she trusts Fixer too. Not just with her life, but with the Railroad. With the _future._

Fixer is relentless, a landslide. It’s not just her skill in the field, but her tenacity. Is this how Deacon feels, swept up in her wake? Does it make him feel a little bit helpless? Does he watch her ass, too? 

Admittedly, Fixer’s got a great ass. Bigger, more than most other people in the Wasteland, from what Glory’s seen, which makes the fit of her jumpsuit a bit more, well...fitted. Not that Glory’s seen much ass, admittedly. Not much time for that when you’re one of about five people propping the Railroad up on it’s last legs. 

Though now that Fixer’s joined the propping, there’s been a lot less scrambling to save a failing organization and a lot more thinking about asses. For Glory at least.

Fixer nods her chin towards what used to be a bank, a place the old worlders used to store that stupid paper money instead of caps, exchanging it for _more_ paper money for no reason Glory can fathom. 

The bank is clear of hostiles, and they work through each room more slowly than the last. Fixer sorts through the junk with slow, lazy hands, tossing things aside or tucking them away seemingly on a whim. 

She seems lost in thought, and Glory takes the opportunity to study her again. The ground floor is brightly lit, and Fixer is haloed in warm gold light. Glory can see the flyaways of her hair against the light, and each feature is picked out cleanly as she turns towards the window. Fixer is a puzzle. A healer, reluctant warrior. Glory’s heard stories from Deacon, that she’s a whole new level of old-world scary. Glory beliefs about half of it. High Rise has stories too, that she’s brave, and she’s pro synth, that H2-22 took an immediate shine to her. That she shed a few tears when she found H2 in the Memory Den, mind erased and replaced with new, happier, more normal memories. And she’s talked to General Preston Garvey, and he’s told Glory things about Fixer that she buys completely—that she’s kind, that she avoids violence when she can, but when she fights, she tends to win. 

But right now? She just looks tired.. 

Glory pretends she hasn’t been staring when Fixer passes her a circuit board, and their fingers brush as she takes it. Glory shoves the tech into her bag, eyes locked on what her suddenly clumsy hands are doing. 

They don’t talk much, their banter dying out a few buildings ago. Now there’s a silence between them that Glory can’t decide if it’s comfortable or not. It’s cut with grunted directions and a few check-ins. Fixer swears or hums under her breath sometimes, and Glory just watches everything, checking for hostiles, scouting for shitty floors that might unexpectedly drop them a painful storey or two, watches how Fixer’s hips have this particular swing to them as she’s climbing stairs. Glory finds it amusing that Fixer flat out refuses to take the elevator. 

Their fingers brush again when Fixer hands her a bundle of copper wire and something electric races up Glory’s arm like the wire is live between their hands. 

“Are you getting tired?” asks Fixer, her eyes lingering on Glory’s face, a tiny frown furrowing between her dark eyebrows like she’s trying to read Glory’s mind. 

Glory huffs a disdainful little laugh. “If scavenging tired me out, I’d retire.” She tugs the wire from Fixer’s fingers when she realizes they are both still holding on to it. 

Fixer offers her a little shrug and a nod and turns back to digging through the crate of pre-war junk. Glory lets her shoulders slump in a silent sigh. She’s keyed up now with this electric tension, and her fingers hum with the unexpected energy. 

_This,_ Glory tells herself, _is exactly how Drummer Boy described having a crush._

Glory didn’t _get_ crushes.

“There’s a storage room,” Fixer says in her low and measured voice, gently accented as always. She leads the way to the latticed metal room to find it locked. Light from a nearby window creates a dappled pattern as it shines through the metal grid and Glory can see into the room; there’s junk everywhere. A veritable scavenging goldmine.

Fixer attacks the lock and a few moments later she makes that happy little noise that always accompanies a newly open door. It makes Glory smile to herself that Fixer’s got these little tells behind her stoic facade. She kicks the door open. Inside, the room is full of random things no one needs anymore, except Fixer. If she gets her hands on something, she’ll find a use for it. 

Glory checks the hall for more bots ferals, but the whole bank is empty. She drops her pack outside the door and slings her assault rifle over her back so she can have both hands free to help with whatever junk they might find.

Fixer scans the room and makes another little noise of triumph as she spots something up high on the wall. 

“Find something shiny?” Glory asks.

“Bio scanner,” Fixer answers, stretching up to try and reach a weird dish-looking device embedded into the wall. “Exactly what I need.” 

Fixer’s too short to reach the weird tech. Glory has some inches on her, a few inches, but Fixer's got curves and solid muscle underneath that Glory lacks. Drummer Boy has a theory about Fixer’s curves. It’s all that pre-war food, he says—the sugar and the abundance bread storing up and making her soft and... _fuck._

“Give me a hand?” Fixer asks over her shoulder. “It should just pop out of the brackets.”

“All right, short stuff. Move over.” Glory feels her face go hot while her body goes cold when she shuffles over, their bodies brushing. Fixer drops from her tip-toes as Glory crowds into her space. Glory reaches the scanner thing more easily, fingers scrambling for purchase. It’s thoroughly stuck in the brackets that hold it to the wall and Glory has to fight the scanner in order to pop it from its fixture. When the thing finally gives in, it’s with a bang and Glory’s hand ricochets into the shelf beside her head with a bang and flash of sharp pain. The scanner hits the ground with another bang and Glory swears, hunching around her hand and grabbing for her fingers.

“Aw, shit!” she hisses, balling her fist as her fingers throb.

“Oh,” Fixer says, “let me…” and before Glory can protest Fixer takes possession of her throbbing hand. Fixer turns her hand over to probe the bruised skin on her knuckles. Glory sucks in a breath and can’t exhale, the breath stuck in her chest as her fingers rest against Fixer’s.

 _She used to be a doctor,_ Glory reminds herself. _Army medic. Whatever._ She keeps her eyes lowered, locked on Fixer’s hands.

Her skin is pale and cool where Glory was dark and warm. Her fingers are short, her palms broad, where Glory’s are long and tapered. But there are similarities too. Both their hands are too soft to have been born in the Wasteland. She’s got scars and callouses just like Glory, but under that she has skin like a synth that’s never left the Institute, lab grown and designed to be perfect. Skin like Glory’s skin used to be. Like Glory, Fixer doesn’t have the wear and tear those Institute bastards add to their people-replacement synths for that _realistic_ wasteland effect. 

“How’s that?” asks Fixer, carefully unfolding Glory’s fingers into her palm, her fingers brushing Glory’s knuckles, the back of her hand, checking for hurt.

“Uh,” Glory clears her throat. “Stings.” If it was anyone else she would already have snatched her hand away the moment they touched her and cussed them out for fussing. Instead, Glory slides her fingers across Fixer’s palm, as if to confirm their softness. “‘m fine.”

Fixer gives her a fleeting smile, as if she doesn’t notice the touch. “Nothing broken,” Fixer reports, flexing Glory’s fingers a few more times, examining her hand with...well, Glory has been seen by more than a few doctors, and the way Fixer’s thumb smooths over her palm feels less than strictly-professional. Fixer looks up at Glory and the both go still. 

“Are you...interested in me?” Fixer’s voice cracks a little. 

“What? No… I mean…You’re… interesting. An interesting person.” _Get it together, Glory._ “Why do you—” she swallows hard, “Why do you ask?”

Fixer smiles a little. “You’re being weird. More quiet than usual. And you’ve been watching me.”

Glory shakes her head, that weird buzzing electricity building behind the throbbing pain in her hand. “We’re working. I don’t tend to hit on people while we’re working. Flirting is dangerous.”

“I don’t see any hostiles,” Fixer says, peering around the tiny storage room, the dappled light playing across her face, and Glory thinks she sees the faintest hint of a smile, like Fixer just dropped a joke Glory doesn’t quite catch.

_She’s holding your goddamn hand, woman. Do something._

“Ask me next time we’re in Bunker Hill and I’ve had a couple,” says Glory.

Fixer shakes her head and gives her hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ve never been in Bunker Hill at the same time.” 

A half dozen things Glory might retort with dance through her head. _First time for everything. You’re buying. God you’re fucking gorgeous._

Fixer tilts her head to the side, and Glory senses an opening, an unexpected softness, as well as a hint of... vulnerability. And she just sort of stares like a goddamn idiot. 

And then her gut drops, because Fixer drops her hand. “My prognosis is you’ll live,” she says, her voice going curt and Doctor formal. Doctor with a capital “D.” Fixer turns to resume searching the room, and Glory’s insides start screaming at her. _Don’t let go, don’t let go._

“Yeah. Okay. You got me. I’m...interested in you. No trip to the Hill needed.”

Fixer pauses, half in profile, and she half smiles, her eyes on the floor. She’s got Glory caught good and tight now. Her breathing goes fast and shallow as she tries to look cocky, hands on her hips. Fixer closes the distance between them, that little half smile softening.

“Me too,” Fixer says, her voice quiet enough that Glory has to lean down to catch her words.

Glory takes a step closer. “Now what?” Glory says.

“We could find out,” says Fixer. She tilts her chin up toward Glory like an invitation, or a challenge. 

_Stupid, stupid, stupid,_ Glory thinks as she leans down and presses her mouth to Fixer’s.

Fixer makes a happy little sound, like she’s unlocked another door, inhaling sharply through her nose as Glory kisses her. Fixer’s lips part, and Glory gets a taste of sweet wetness that makes the room tilt on its axis. Fixer’s head drops to the side, her chin rising higher, not in challenge, but to get better access to Glory’s mouth, and Glory feels the slow, warm slide of Fixer’s tongue along her bottom lip. 

Hot and cold to the point of shivering, Glory bears down and takes over, finding a rhythm as Fixer presses against her. Fixer tastes like Nuka Cola and jerky, her kisses hungry and lips so soft Glory isn’t sure she’s quite real—no one has lips like that—not anyone that Glory’s kissed before. Like her hands and her skin, her lips are so soft that it makes Glory wonder who made her.

Fixer clings to the front of Glory’s armored coat, thick enough that Glory hardly feels her hands pulling at her shoulders, the front of her coat, her sides. 

Glory pulls away slightly, breaking the kiss to stare at Fixer. Glory has no idea what her expression looks like right now or what Fixer might read there. Glory’s not sure what she’s feeling either. Stunned? Needy? Hungry? All of the above, probably. But Fixer has her own feelings written all over her face for once. She’s lovely, lips parted, her eyes a little dazed and lit with with bright surprise and a puzzled sort of wonder. 

“Is this...” Fixer says, “is this… something you want?”

Glory’s not sure what “this” is, but she’s pretty sure she wants it.

“Pretty sure,” she says with a numb, breathless nod. She stifles a groan as a bright aggressive streak of heat snakes up her spine. Fixer’s arms slip around her neck and Glory pushes Fixer back, capturing her mouth in a hard kiss as she goes. Fixer stumbles, her mouth hot and desperate on Glory’s and she lets out a little yelp of surprise as her back slams up against the wall of the tiny storage room. 

_Too hard, too fast,_ Glory admonishes herself. She’s never been good at going slow or playing it safe. But here, she should probably play it safe. Too hard, too fast. Glory freezes until Fixer’s arms tighten around her neck and pull her back down towards her mouth.

Fixer starts panting as their kisses break apart and come back together, a shallow inhale-exhale that fans over Glory’s cheeks. They grow sloppy, tongues growing bolder. Glory’s not quite breathing herself when she bites down on Fixer’s lower lip and pulls. Fixer moans, and it’s way more sexy than any sound has right to be, and a million alarm bells and admonishments scream in Glory’s head. She’s is being too aggressive too soon and fixer is gonna deck her in the face for shoving her backwards and trapping her against the wall and for biting her. Fraternization is a bad, bad idea. Going with non-synths is dangerous and power dynamics tend to get weird. Fucked up. Shattered. 

Glory pulls away to see what Fixer’s expression might tell her, but Fixer grins, a mix of mischief and dazed, suppressed laughter, and all the alarms go quiet. 

They stare at each other for longer than a moment, and Glory slowly peels Fixer’s hands from the front of her coat, wrapping her hands round Fixer’s wrists. Glory’s one hand still hurts as she squeezes, but she ignores the pain because it makes Fixer whine, a plaintive little sound Glory never imagined she’d hear coming from Fixer’s throat. Fixer was much too formidable a woman to make a noise like that.

Glory forces herself to go slow, drawing Fixer’s hands up to pin them to the wall beside her shoulders. Fixer makes another little noise, this one lower and a bit more of a growl. 

Glory backs off on her grip. “Too rough?” she asks. 

Fixer laughs. “Not on your life,” she shoots back, straining at Glory’s grip on her wrists as if to prove a poi.

“Didn’t take you for a lady who wants to get tossed around,” Glory says, half smirking herself as she resumes the pressure. Her hand twinges but she ignores it.

Fixer’s voice is no more than a murmur when she replies. “I’m full of surprises.” 

“I know,” she whispers, lowering her head to brush her lips against Fixer’s neck, exploring along her jaw until she finds a pulse point. That aggressive heat rears up again and Glory bites down, worrying her teeth on perfect skin. She finds another spot to bite, prompting another little moan. 

One more bite and Fixer starts to babble: “Harder, yes. I like it. And you...you’re perfect. _Fuck-la…_ do you have any idea? Just— _crisse_ I want you—”

There’s less oxygen in the room than Glory thinks is strictly healthy, and she’s not ready to hear praise like that from Fixer. Glory might be the ass kicking poster child of synth liberation, but it’s really a bit much coming from the woman who’s hell bent on gluing the Commonwealth back together one insane act of bravery the at a time. 

Glory cuts off Fixer’s praise with a kiss that’s more gentle than the ones that came before, teasing Fixer’s mouth open with a questioning tongue. Fixer shivers and strains against Glory’s renewed grip on her wrists, but Glory shakes her head into the kiss. Fixer replies by biting down down on Glory’s lower lip in what she thinks might be protest, or encouragement. Still, the bright little bead of pain from Fixer’s teeth makes Glory jerk her hips, grinding down into Fixer so she’s thoroughly pinned. Glory still moves slow, muscles taut and struggling against her mental control. She doesn’t want to escalate too quickly or push them to a place they don’t want to go. Not yet. Despite the swagger, the challenge, Glory knows they’re both skittish. It’s hard not to be skittish in the Railroad or when making good on weeks of flirting with a bit of ill-advised franization.

 _Not too fast, not too fast,_ she repeats like a mantra she promptly ignores as she draws Fixer’s wrists above her head, pinning them with one hand, the sore one. Glory’s other hand drops to Fixer’s thigh, squeezing delicious curves of fat and muscle, her fingers rubbing hard, tight circles into the thin fabric like a promise. Fixer’s muscles flex as she raises her leg, and Glory boosts her up higher against the wall, sliding her own thigh between her legs.

“This?” Fixer asks. 

“And more. Whatever you want. Clothes say on, through,” Glory says into Fixer’s lips, delivering thick, slow kisses. 

“Of course,” Fixer agrees, her voice less steady than Glory is used to. “Safety first. Never know when a hostile going to try and ruin our fun.” She speaks in a breathless rush. Still off balance. She likes this new, disarmed Fixer, this real and sweet and solid woman filling her hands. 

Glory slides Fixer up a bit higher on the wall, leveraging her with the thigh between her legs and Fixer moans, grinding down to find more friction. Glory can feel the heat between Fixer’s legs even through all their clothes, and her hand slides down to curl around the curve of Fixer’s ass. 

For a moment, Glory freezes as realization hits her like a mutie’s supersledge. She’s got Fixer— _Fixer—_ pinned up against the wall, cunt grinding into her thigh while Glory’s got her hands on that pre war ass she totally _hasn’t_ been staring at for the past three months. Nope. 

_Nothing to see here, move along. Or just…move. Don’t just sit there like it’s your first time with your hand on someone’s butt._

Glory presses up with her leg, rocking Fixer’s ass to encourage momentum, her own core warming with the promise of the feel of Fixer straddling her thigh.

Fixer’s head lolls to the side, inviting her to explore the pale curve of her throat more thoroughly. Glory studies Fixer’s neck a moment, before devouring her, dropping kisses and bites down her neck until she reaches the collar of Fixer’s jumpsuit. Fixer strains against the grip Glory’s got on her wrists, more little gasps and yelps of pleasure and protest escaping with each bite.

The collar presents a conundrum. Not because of the jumpsuit itself but because the jumpsuit is thoroughly bound to Fixer’s body by her leather armor. 

_Clothes stay on. Stupid thing to say,_ Glory thinks as she drops Fixer’s wrists and attacks the buckles on her gear, tugging at her bandoleer and her shoulder pieces.

“I thought you said clothes say on,” Fixer says, her hands returning to grip the front of Glory’s coat to keep her balance. She’s only got one foot on the ground after all.

“Changed my mind. _My_ clothes stay on. I need some access. To you.”

Fixer chuckles. “Guess this means I trust you enough not to get me killed with my clothes around my ankles.” 

She keeps herself intent on the buckles. “Team effort. One eye on the door, one on me.” A little warm thing starts mucking about in her chest at the word _trust_ coming out of Fixer’s mouth _._ She forces herself to focus on what her fingers are doing, frustrated at how thick they feel as she works another buckle free. Fixer laughs again and helps her get the rest of her leathers off so Glory can get to the jumpsuit. She jerks down on the zipper and pulls away when she finds a white t-shirt underneath. The discovery makes her click her tongue in disappointment

She shakes her head. “I was _hoping_ for skin.” 

“Well, I think your usual style of ripping right through things in your way could work to your favor in this situation.” Fixer’s grin makes her look like a little shit and her hands slide up to rake through Glory’s hair, the only spot where Glory isn’t covered in armor besides her face. Fixer’s nails nip against the stubley sides of Glory’s scalp, and for a moment she’s lost in the sensation before she remembers that she has an inconvenient t-shirt to deal with.

Only one thing to do. Glory grips the t-shirt on each side and looks Fixer in the eye. Fixer’s pupils are blown wide, her irises narrow amber rings against shot black. Fixer nods once, a dazed and crooked smile curling her lip in one of those little challenges.

“Do it,” she whispers.

It’s all Glory needs to jerk the shirt so it rips in two, revealing Fixer’s torso. Fixer laughs, a giddy little sound that resonates with that warm thing in Glory’s chest. She stares at Fixer’s exposed torsos for a moment, a slow smile curling at her lips as Fixer leans back for inspection. Her chest a map of scars, some old, some new. Freckles pepper her cool, fair skin, and Glory jerks the jumpsuit down around Fixer’s shoulders to find the same freckles they're, heavier from getting more sun. 

She bends to taste Fixer’s skin, likcing at the salty-sweet sweat across Fixer’s collarbones and down to the deep line of cleavage between her breasts. Her mouth drifts towards Fixer’s scars. Glory loves Fixer’s scars already, feeling a deep, slow heat warming her insides as her mouth traces them one by one, dragging her lips across skin, darting her tongue and landing kisses on concave and convex ripples of scar tissue, shiny burn scars, and keloid.

“Like my scars?” Fixer asks. She’s got her head back on the wall, sighing as Glory nods into her chest and hums an affirmative. 

Glory plants a kiss on puckered bullet wound. Seems like a .38 round. “What’s this one?” 

“Guess,” Fixer says.

“Raider fight.”

Fixer shakes her head. “Pre war.” 

Glory huffs in surprise. Of course she’d have scars from before the war. Of course she’d seen firefights before the war. Glory wonders if the rumor about her being a doctor is a lie. It doesn't matter. She traces another scar with kisses, that one long and smooth across Fixer’s shoulder. “Knife,” she says. “Recent.”

“A raider sliced me on the run to Tichon,” Fixer says as she drifts her hand across Glory’s jaw.

Glory raises her head and leans in to kiss her again, a short, demanding press of her lips before she kisses the faded pink scars that cuts through the skin under Fixer’s lip and splits her chin. 

“How about these? Pre war?” she hazards. She wants to ask about the big scar down the side of her face but something screams hazard! Warning! Approach with extreme care! So she stays away.

“Pre war,” Fixer agrees. “Brawl. I lost.” 

“Scrappy,” says Glory, and bites at her chin. Fixer yelps and she kisses her again, hard and deep. Fixer opens to her, mouth hot and wet, their teeth scrape together and _fuck,_ her lips are so _fucking_ soft. 

Fixer scoots forward against her thigh a little more, hands dropping to massage Glory’s neck. Her shoulders brace hard against the wall and Glory holds her up with one thigh. She’s going to get tired soon if they stay in one position for too long, but hauling a minigun around the Commonwealth has its benefits. As does synth resilience. 

Glory’s free hand brushes away the torn t-shirt and slips beneath jumpsuit to explore the rest of Fixer’s body. She finds other scars, but passes them over as her fingers slip down, exploring the curves of Fixer’s hips till she gets to her belly. She stops there, at the curve of her stomach, soft fat over dense muscle, the curve of her belly traced through with little scars. Glory explores them, trying to make her calloused fingers gentle as if she’s capable of such thing, her brow drawing down in confusion as finds the scars meandering from the top of Fixer’s underwear like little textured streaks of lighting. She looks up, puzzled as her fingers stroke the little scars. They aren't from a fight, that’s for certain. 

“Never seen stretch marks before?” Fixer smiles a little, but it’s not one of those bragging smiles. It’s something else.

 _Sad_. Her smile is sad.

Glory shakes her head slowly, digging her fingers into Fixer’s thick hips, the little scars a delicate contrast to her soft skin. The feel mysterious. So much about bodies are still mysterious. 

“They’re from having a baby,” Fixer says quietly, and Glory’s hands freeze on Fixer’s hips, mouth going dry. _Dangerous territory,_ she thinks. _Was trying to avoid this._ Glory doesn't know Fixer’s whole story, doesn’t really _want_ to know, but it sounds complicated and traumatic and suddenly she’s worried about walking into a mess she can’t handle, that Fixer is going to break open and...

“Hey,” Fixer says, tilting her chin up to press her lips to the corner of Glory’s mouth. “It’s okay. It’s part of me.” Fixer’s hand find its way to the shaved sides of Glory’s head, rubbing gently at the stubble behind one ear before combining into Glory’s long silver crown of hair.

“Okay,” Glory says, and kisses her back, pulling away to see that sad smile transform into one hinting at sunlight. That’s it, right there. That smile is the thing Glory knows Fixer hides from her, from _everyone_. That whatsit—that resting bitch face is a good act if it’s not under close scrutiny, and the real Fixer is is sweet and sad and damn it but Glory wants to do terrible, wonderful things to her. 

They have another staring contest, and Glory isn’t sure which one of them feels more vulnerable in that moment. 

“Your body is amazing,” Glory says, for something to say. It’s an honest thing, though and is rewarded with another of those sunlit smiles. Fixer’s teeth are bright and even, soft lips spilling her secret, that once Fixer’s smile breaks loose, she has a hard time keeping it hidden. “You’re so fucking beautiful. I want to touch you all over.” 

She’s rewarded with a deeper grind against her thigh, and Fixer nods, answers breathlessly. “Anywhere. Don’t avoid my scars,” Fixer says, her voice steadier than it has been in a while.

“I won’t,” Glory says, as if that was an option she could consider. Her hands resume their exploration of Fixer’s hips and belly, tracing stretch marks and the line of Fixer’s underwear. Fixer grinds against her leg again, slow and heady and Glory makes a low sound in her throat and slides her fingers over Fixer’s underwear just where the jumpsuit zipper ends and makes it awkward to push any further. Her hand lingers there, where her belly curves in, her pelvis rocking in a deep rhythm against Glory’s leg.

“Can I?” Glory asks in a hoarse whisper, barely avoiding an embarrassing crack to her voice.

Fixer nods, eyes hot and bright. “Go ahead.” She pulls at the back of Glory’s neck, urgent and hungry until they crash together in a rush of lips and tongue. Glory pulls Fixer’s raised knee wider and squeezes her other hand past the tight crotch of the jumpsuit to find Fixer’s underwear soaked through.

“Oh, _fuck_ ,” Glory manages between kisses. “How are you—mmm— _sofuckingwet_ —mmmmm—already.”

Fixer laughs and arches her back away from the wall, lifting her hips to give Glory more access. It’s easy to pull her underwear aside and slide her fingers between Fixer’s thick lips. Fixer does the work for her, setting the pace by rocking her hips. Glory’s hand grows hot and cramped, trapped between Fixer’s wet heat and her own thigh. She’ll make it work. She fumbles for a moment, seeking the sweet spot she knows is there with the pad of her thumb, giving Fixer a few exploratory swipes until she finds the bud of her clit and presses down. The feel of her heat and wet makes Glory’s brain go sideways with heady glee, body going hot and cold again. Her fingers feel like fire as she quests deeper. 

Fixer bucks against the wall and Glory falls forward with a groan of her own, suddenly savage and needing to taste skin on her tongue, feel it between her teeth. Fixer’s breasts threaten to spill from her bra and Glory bites at them until one falls free. Her mouth slips around one pale brown nipple and Fixer moans something unintelligible. Begging, perhaps. A request.

“What’s that?” Glory abandons her breast and kisses up Fixer’s arched chest to bite her neck, hard. Fixer bucks again and says something between clenched teeth. In French, perhaps.

“I can’t hear you,” Glory hums, biting her again as she rolls her thumb over Fixer’s clit in a demanding rhythm, long fingers stroking her inner lips and needy the entrance of her cunt.

“Fuck...me,” she pants, the line of her throat exposed for Glory to worry at with her teeth. She’ll have tiny bruises all over her neck and torso enough. 

“That’s what I’m doing, Fix,” Glory says, playing dumb.

“Inside me,” Fixer says, her head lolling to the side to give Glory a heavy look, lashes lowered and lips parted and swollen. “With your fingers. Three of them.”

Glory laughs at her candor and rewards her with a kiss. Her hand shifts to find a better position, already a pinched at an awkward angle. She wraps an arm around Fixer’s ass, hauling her up to give herself more room as she slides her fingers up and in, one at a time. She’s not slow about it even though her fingers met resistance, tight, hot walls squeezing she pushes into her. Fixer swears, a string of those meaningless French words and begins to rock. Glory’s fingers get pulled deeper and she curls them, rocking carefully in time to Fixer’s own jerking thrusts and squeezes around her ass with her other arm to hold the rhythm.

Glory’s lips and tongue and teeth find and consume any patch of skin she can reach; stomach, marred with those funny white scars—stretch marks; up her belly to her sternum back to bite her nipple, harder than she intended. Fixer shouts a wordless cry, hips bucking, and Glory’s fingers dig into her hips so hard she knows—maybe hopes there will be round little bruises there later. Glory’s other hand works relentlessly within the confines of Fixer’s jumpsuit, the fabric of her underwear thoughtlessly wrest aside while she bears down on Fixer’s clit with her thumb in harsh, tight circles 

Fixer’s climax crashes into them both, leaving Fixer crying out, her cunt rolling in a tight, rhythmic release around Glory’s fingers. Her clit throbs hot and hard against Glory’s thumb and Glory gives it another demanding swipe, making Fixer swear as her body rolls and her cunt clenches again. 

“Ah… _crisse_ _de osti_! Glory...” Fixer gasps as the shutters roll through her, trying to pull herself up to wrap her arms around Glory’s shoulders. Glory leans in, pressing her face into Fixer’s neck, biting her throat hard enough that she’s about to break skin. She draws back, breathing in the sweat-soaked, earth-and-soap scent of her, heady and addicting to the point that addictol would never rid her of the obsession. Not that her obsession had started here, not by a long shot.

They pull apart slowly, Glory’s fingers sliding from between Fixer’s legs. They both groan at the shifting sensation and loss of contact, Glory’s fingers now wet and slick. Fixer’s hands drift gently along the sides of Glory’s face, like she’s trying to find her way back, and down her neck as Glory traces more kisses across Fixer’s collarbones, her lips restless as they travel her throat and along her jaw to seek her mouth. Glory finds it, and it is soft and warm, their tongues sliding against each others a slow kiss that makes Glory feel bright and hot, her own core hot and needy as Fixer felt just moments ago. 

No time for that now though. The light is going, no longer dappled but thin and shifting to something pale and almost gloomy.

Fixer smiles against Glory’s lips and her shoulders shake against Glory’s chest. She pulls away, frowning as she realizes Fixer is laughing. 

“That bad, huh?” Glory manages, acutely aware that her fingers are still slick and wet. 

Fixer shakes her head, chuckling. “No, just the opposite. I think I’m in shock.” 

“You did just climb me like a tree,” Glory points out, rather reasonably. “I’m in a bit of shock myself.”

Fixer pulls her in for another kiss, and Glory shakes her head. 

“What about you,” Fixer asks, frowning. There’s something that shifts in her expression, maybe a suppressed eagerness barred by the realization that worse things come out at night. They’ve had their backs to the door for too long.

“We need to move,” says Glory. “Some other time, maybe.” 

“Bunker Hill." Fixer's chin raises in a challenge. “After we’ve had a few.” 

Glory steps back with a noncommittal shrug, leaving Fixer leaning against the wall, clothes askew. Fixer adjusts her bra and pulls herself out of the shredded t-shirt before shrugging back into her jumpsuit and zipping it up. She tosses Glory the t-shirt with a little smile. Glory catches it wipes her fingers with it, hoping Fixer won’t notice that she’s keeping the garment. 

Fixer’s cool, stoic facade settles back far more quickly than Glory had managed to crack it. She’s efficient, gathers the stupid, instigating bio scanner they'd left forgotten on the floor, grabs her gear, and precedes Glory out the door.

They keep a little closer to each other on the way back to HQ, and Glory gets caught between a wince and a grin when she notices that the little bites she made along Fixer’s neck are starting to show. 

By the time they make it back, Fixer’s stone face is firmly established and there is nothing but cool professionalism between them. When she leaves with Deacon few hours later, it’s with a wave to Glory and the tiniest of smiles. 


	3. Chapter 3

Three weeks pass mechanically, business as usual. Glory sees more action than she has in a while, probably because Team Sneaky is out doing recon instead of Glory's job for once. The Gunners are a nightmare down south, clearing out Raiders and establishing their own territory, so Glory and her minigun have been making good friends with the mercs. They’re a bunch of meatbags now. 

She hasn’t been thinking much about Fixer, at least not after that first week, but she’s still got that shredded t-shirt shoved in a lock-box in the hallway along with her books and a few odds and ends she’s collected over the years.

She’s trying to sleep after a particularly tough run, nursing a sore shoulder. She has to face the wall so she’s not laying on the arm, even though she’d rather have her back to it. It dosen’t matter. The route clear, so the hurt is irrelevant. 

A stir in the main room shifts Glory from half asleep to fully alert. HQ’s been empty except for the regulars for the past two days, and most everyone left is asleep besides Carrington. Glory hears Deacon’s light baritone drawl drift down the hall, followed by Fixer’s voice, higher, sweeter. She sounds tired, but Glory can’t quite catch what they’re saying.

Glory rolls over with a little groan, and stares at the entry to the hall where she’s bunked down, wondering if she should get up or pretend to be asleep, when the familiar silhouette of a short, stocky figure blocks the dim light from the doorway. 

Glory breathes a sigh, her body going hot and cold. 

“Glory?” Fixer calls out, her voice quiet and hoarse. 

After a moment, Glory makes a little sound of inquiry, raising her arm in a lazy wave, even though it pinches her shoulder. She regrets refusing the Doc’s offer of a stim for something so petty as a pulled muscle. 

Fixer takes a few steps forward and as the light shifts Glory sees that she’s got a blanket bundled in her arms. 

Glory slides over to the wall, keeping her expression carefully neutral even though it’s dark, and Fixer turns and sinks down onto the mattress with a grateful sigh. She hunches with her back to Glory, hugging the blanket to her chest. Glory watches the shallow in-out of Fixer’s breathing and reaches out a hand, making Fixer jump when she makes contact with her back. 

Fixer lets out a breath blown through her lips like she’s trying to stay calm and Glory can feel her heart hammering.

“Okay?” Glory asks after they sit in silence for a moment. Fixer nods in the semi-darkness and Glory props herself up on one arm, the one that’s not sore, and steers Fixer around to face her.

Fixer’s not stoic now. She’s exhausted, tight lines around her mouth and eyes. Glory’s heart drops into her gut as she reaches up and brushes a stray lock of sable hair from Fixer’s eyes and studies her face. She’s hard to read, still mostly in silhouette, which means Fixer can probably see Glory clearly. 

“Yeah,” says Fixer.

Glory thinks she’s been practicing her lying. 

She pulls the blanket from Fixer’s arms and tosses it over her hips, and Fixer sinks down, slipping one arm around Glory’s waist and pillowing her own head with the other. 

“Okay,” Glory says again, this time in agreement instead of a question.

Fixer leans in and Glory feels a soft flow of breath on her cheek before Fixer finds lips. Her kiss spreads hot and sweet, and Glory hums a little in surprise. Her body reacts too, warming her chest and her core, remembering how last time Fixer was this close to her she was wearing a lot more clothes. Fixer slides closer, her lips slipping from Glory’s to trail a line of warm kisses down her neck until Glory shivers and wraps her arms around around her, shoulder protesting with a jolt of pain she ignores, pulling Fixer tight to her chest. 

“I missed you,” Fixer says, rubbing her nose in the soft fabric of Glory’s t-shirt, the only one she owns. It probably smells. _Everything_ smells in the wasteland.

“Yeah,” Glory mumbles. A number of questions spring to mind. Why hasn’t she been to HQ in three weeks? Why does she look so tired? Why is she in Glory’s bed? “And I missed you. It’s been boring without you. Taking all the good jobs again.”

Fixer hums. “Sorry,” she mumbles, and slides a hand down Glory’s waist to her hips.

Glory rests her chin on the top of Fixer’s head and thinks maybe she’d rather not have any answers. Not right now.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos feed a writer more than Fancy Lads and mac 'n cheese. I loved working on this, even if it tried to kill me at times. Please let me know if you enjoyed!
> 
> Also fuck you Bethesda??? This gay gay story has a happy ending.


End file.
